My Last Human Memory
by gabriel42
Summary: "Carlisle..." I felt the hairs at the back of my neck rise as his cool breath ghosted over the sensitive skin. Then he bit down.


Disclaimer: you know the drill – I don't own them, I'm not making any money with this, though we all wish we did both...

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"Carlisle..." My voice caught on the two syllables. It felt strange to address him by his given name, but at this point "Dr. Cullen" was definitely no longer an option. I swallowed, and lowered my gaze to his desk, in hopes of being able to utter a complete sentence this time. It didn't help that my eyes passed over his chest on the way, his physique even more visible now that he had taken off his white coat and wore only a plain shirt. I tried anyway. "Carlisle, I realize you've never had a choice in this matter, but I..." I forced myself to raise my head and look him in the eye – impossibly, almost irresistibly tantalizing, dark ochre – as I blurted out my confession, hoping he wouldn't find my infatuation as pathetic as I did, "I've been giving this a lot of thought, and I'm ready. As ready as I'll ever be," I amended.

I watched his reaction expectantly. He studied me for a long moment, a worried frown creasing his brow. I was beginning to fear he would turn me away after all when he blinked, seeming to have reached a conclusion. He took a single step in my direction, coming around the desk he had so far carefully kept between us, a last barrier of safety. His movements were almost exaggeratedly slow, not wanting to frighten me, but that only gave me a better opportunity to appreciate how gracefully he moved – like a predator stalking easily frightened prey. The comparison came unbidden, but it was too fitting to ignore. It was not just a comparison.

It was all I could do not to jump when he was suddenly in front of me, his right hand reaching for my shoulder. His touch was light as a feather through the fabric of my blouse, barely enough even to convince me he was really there. Nevertheless, it made me acutely aware that my back was against the wall of his office – just leaning, not pressed, not desperate to escape – not yet, an insidious voice whispered in my head.

"You shouldn't forget to breathe." Carlisle's voice was quiet, calm and ever so slightly amused, his good doctor's voice, but it seemed to me to carry a strain, a hint of the effort this cost him. I couldn't be sure, though, since my own blood rushed in my ears like Forks' rain at its worst. I looked up into his perfect face to gauge his reaction, finding his usually light, almost amber eyes blackened by hunger. He looked down, meeting and holding my gaze, searching for a reason why I put myself in this situation. Or maybe he was looking for permission, preparing himself to relent centuries of disciplined self-control. My throat was already exposed from tilting my head back, but I turned some more to the right, offering myself, inviting him in.

I was absurdly grateful when he bent his head to my neck; as I no longer looked into the hypnotic depths of his eyes, something resembling coherent thought returned to me. But not for long, then his cheek brushed against my jawline; cold, unyielding and smooth as the marble it looked like. I felt the hairs at the back of my neck rise as his cool breath ghosted over the sensitive skin; not so much due to the physical chill as to the realization that he was drinking in my smell, that this was the kind of temptation that he had – wisely, I was coming to think – avoided for so long, and that at any moment he might surrender the last shreds of control and tear me to pieces. I tensed as the fight or flight instinct made itself heard, only to freeze where I was when Carlisle responded: a shudder went through his body, I could feel each muscle stand out as he tensed convulsively, his chest and the arm at my shoulder growing even harder.

Only his lips were still gentle as they roamed over my throat, seeking and finding the pulse that leapt at an unhealthy rate. I pushed my second thoughts aside, trying to prepare myself for the pain when he bit down – but his mouth wandered away, to the side of my neck, where the big arteries were safely covered by muscle and tendons. Part of me marvelled at the fact that even now he was trying to protect me, refraining from inflicting deep wounds to the major blood vessels. His hair tickled my cheek as he moved his head fractionally, breaking the contact with my skin. "Forgive me," he murmured near my ear, but so quietly that I wondered whether he was even speaking to me, or rather to himself, or maybe someone else entirely. Then he bit down.

More than once had I tried to imagine what it would be like to be bitten, but what I experienced now went far beyond my fantasies. I had anticipated pain, but there was only a chilly numbness where the wound must be. Not only his lips were cold, but also his teeth and even his tongue, as it traced hungrily the line where sharp teeth met soft flesh. I felt the warmth of my own blood as he slowly began to suck, felt the muscles in his throat move as he swallowed the first mouthful. His lips pressed down harder as his desire became more urgent. But what I really wasn't prepared for was the way the feelings spread through my whole body: it wasn't just a shiver up the spine, it was a tingling all over, every sense abnormally sharpened, from the way his statuesque body pressed against mine and his quick, harsh breathing to the way his hair smelled; every nerve ending seemed to be on fire. It was an exquisite blend of blissful mental blankness and a dizzying kaleidoscope of sensations, a heady mixture of pain and arousal. If what vampires experienced when they took blood was anything like the rush I felt now, I was beginning to think that I wouldn't hesitate to rip someone's throat out, either.

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